The Deep Watches of the Night

My eyes are awake before the watches of the night, that I may meditate on your promise.

                                                                                                                    Psalm 119:148 

I lay awake upon my first waking at 2:05 thinking that I might be grieving the end of the water fast. I think to myself that it is a crazy idea, but then I think some more. The essence of Winter, in the cosmology of the program, is rest. Deep rest. This may be what I am grieving. Deep rest was one of the gifts of the 72-hour water fast, and I drank it up like the water that sustained me. 

One of the things that fell away during Covid, was the regular time I took away for rest and refreshment. I am not talking about vacations here, but retreat time. Time away from screens, time away from doing, time away from being available for others. Time for solitude and deep thought, reflection, contemplation, nature and wild places. 

I got up at 3:05. Felt frustrated at not being able to fall back to sleep. I've had nights plagued by the two sleeps before. Plagued. A strong word. It often feels this way to me, and the next day I do not feel my best. Usually. 

I decided to write, here and in my morning journal. See what might emerge in the deep watches of the night. The watches of the night, historically, biblically, are times the guard is set. While most sleep, others stand guard. This is the darkest part of the night, this time when I am awake and writing. Some say it's the time of our greatest creativity. I just feel tired, and awake enough that sleep does not come.

I sit and stare at the words for a long time. 

I begin to feel a heaviness settle upon me. And think I might be able to sleep again.  

I think of a line from Longfellow . . .

 

In the long, sleepless watches of the night . . . 

. . . and of what we mine here.

                                               

The Green Wilderness is a daily writing practice that opens a landscape of discovery into my own human experience. 

Katherine Cartwright has been blogging since 2012, and each year brings new wonders. She asks big questions of the small things in life.

I've referenced the poem, The Cross of Snow, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.